When he was outside he slowed down. He was doing some rapid thinking. “There’s no mistake about it, I’m sure of that, but I wonder if I ought to hold out on the Inspector again. No, it will be wiser to tell him, although I hate to.”
Mr. Fairchild had telephoned just after the radio report had come on, but in the dispatch there had been no mention of stabbing. It had merely said that Singer was murdered, but when Jupiter had arrived at the Fairchilds’, some ten minutes later, Mr. Fairchild had met him at the door and mentioned casually that he had heard that Singer was stabbed.
“There’s only one way he could have found that out,” said Jupiter grimly.
CHAPTER X
RANKIN was back in Singer’s room telling reporters he had nothing to say. Jupiter recognized some of them when he came in. The Sergeant took one look at Jupiter’s face and then told the reporters to clear out.
When they had gone he said, “What’s on your mind?”
“Plenty,” said Jupiter, with feeling. “But first tell me if you’ve checked on Mr. Fairchild’s alibi.”
“Sure I have. What’s the trouble?”
“What time did he get home?”
Rankin frowned. “I don’t see what you’re getting at, but he got home a little after seven. He said he had stopped in at his club here in Cambridge for a cocktail after seeing Singer. I saw the steward at his club this morning. He told me he thought Fairchild left about quarter of seven after coming in just after six. Does that sound all right?”
“It sounds all right,” nodded Jupiter. “But listen to this.”
For a while after he had finished, Rankin was silent.
“You don’t think there can be any mistake about it?” demanded the Sergeant.
“I don’t see how,” answered Jupiter, “unless he was lying when he said he had heard the news over the radio and I can’t see any reason why he should if he had nothing to do with it.”
“Do you suppose he went to his office this morning?”
“I’ll find out,” said Jupiter, dialing a number.
“Wait a minute,” yelled the Sergeant. “Don’t tell him I want to see him.”
“Don’t worry,” said Jupiter. “Hello? Is Mr. Fairchild there? . . . He is? Thank you.
He hung up.
“I’m coming with you,” he said.
“My God, you work fast, don’t you?” smiled Rankin. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to take you along. Come on.”
Rankin found Illinois and they piled into a car.
“This is my first trip in a police car as a noncombatant,” Jupiter told the Sergeant.
“What do you mean?”
“Misunderstandings on the part of the police.
Illinois turned around wearily. “Where are we going, Chief?”
“State Street National,” said Jupiter.
“Where’s that?” asked Illinois.
“On State Street, oddly enough,” said Jupiter, smiling.
“Oh, in Boston.”
“Yes, the little town you see across the river from Cambridge.”
Illinois ground the gears.
Jupiter sat back comfortably as they drove along the Charles.
Rankin turned to him. “You know, Jones, you may have solved this murder.”
“It looks that way. I think Singer deserved to be killed and I kind of hate to see anyone caught for doing it. Fairchild may be a stuffed shirt, but I like him.”
“You think he did it?”
Jupiter stared at the Sergeant. “Hell! Don’t you?”
“We have no proof of it. Just because he knew that Singer was stabbed doesn’t mean he killed him.”
“Is there any other explanation?”
“There’s a very good explanation,” said Rankin, “which you have overlooked entirely. To me it’s the obvious one. Look here. Fairchild left his club at quarter of seven and was home just after seven; that doesn’t leave him much time to kill a man, but I’ll admit that if everything broke right for him he could have done it. Now the obvious thing seems to me that if he didn’t do it someone told him Singer was stabbed.”
“Who could have?”
“His wife,” said Rankin simply.
“My God!” said Jupiter. That had never entered his head — he’d been so convinced that she was innocent. (Fairchild must have killed Singer: how else did he know that he had been stabbed?)
“We’ll wait and see,” he said.
“Right, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Fairchild broke down and confessed,” said the Sergeant contradictorily.
Jupiter was in the dark. “Now what are you suggesting?”
“If he knew she did it, he might try to save her.”
“You think of everything, Inspector,” said Jupiter, impressed.
They were silent while Illinois fought his way through the maze of Boston’s downtown traffic and at length drew up in front of the bank.
Rankin got out. “You stay here,” he told Jupiter.
Jupiter climbed in front with Illinois. “Turn on the radio, Captain, while we wait for the General.”
Rankin sent his name through to Mr. Fairchild and in a very few minutes was ushered into the executive’s office. Like his study at home, Fairchild’s office was decorated almost entirely with pictures of sailboats. The banker arose, shook hands, and offered Rankin a chair.
“I just want to ask you a few questions about last night, Mr. Fairchild,” said the Sergeant, sitting down.
Fairchild held up his hand. “I think I can save you the trouble, Sergeant; I have an idea why you wanted to see me this morning.” He paused and passed his hand over his tanned ‘ forehead. “I should have told you all this last night. I don’t know why I didn’t, except that everything happened so fast I didn’t have a chance to think clearly. . . . Well, what I’m going to tell you is the absolute truth; it will be hard to believe and I hardly expect you to, but nevertheless . . .”
“Suppose you tell me, Mr. Fairchild. I have no reason not to believe you.”
“Of course. Well, I don’t know how much you know about my affairs or what happened last night. Let me start this way: my wife had been having an affair with Singer. I knew nothing about it until last week when she told me. She said then that she had told Singer that she couldn’t go
